Post by pascha on Jun 28, 2013 7:51:44 GMT -8
Though he wore a brave face through all the trials and tests of the last month, still the poison ate away at him. The venom, cursed taint of cursed mouth, did mickle torment to his flesh and soul.
Still, they looked to him. And for them, for them and for the barest hope of seeing the Pretty once again, did he carry on. The town and its poor rabble needed a leader, a bright star in darkest night, to hold them from the very edge of terror and failure. This was his lot. He would not fail.
To the gleaming halls of The Libarry did he carry the great treasure. The townsfolk, in their simplicity, had overlooked it. They saw a burden and not a prize. Again, he would take up the mantle of sage and hero. Now, deep within the hidden rooms of the brobdingnagian archive he had built from stick and stone, he laid the Golden Apple. There it would rest until the town needed the puissance locked within.
Despite the pride he felt as he bore the great bounty homeward, the quondam said scourge coursed through him. Still it ate away and faster yet. Once his habiutés were safely home and their future safely secreted in the hollows of his beloved lyceum, he fell. Away from the eyes of the people, in the dark of his own donjon, he slept a disquited torpor as the swevens came.
The eyes of a thousand foes were upon him as he lay dormant. They called to him, voices grating, carolling doom and fortune. A lead voice broke forth, a pure tenor among the caddish chorus.
Awaken, my child,
O Prized and Grand.
Arise,
Phoenix of the Burning Land.
Arise,
Living among the Dead and D**ned.
Sell not thy soul for false and fallen.
Pyrite thy hast,
But now take Gilt.
Betimes the bilbo doth approach
Be thy at its point or hilt?
Take thy future proudly, bravely.
Stand thee tall
Whilst others wilt.
The leid, fading slowly, stayed with him as he startled to consciousness. Every corner of his fortress explored, the once unwavering half ogre knew fear for the first time. And fight though he did, still sleep overtook him. Laying his head next to the great egg he had carried from the far mountains, the singers greeted his oblivion.
Still, they looked to him. And for them, for them and for the barest hope of seeing the Pretty once again, did he carry on. The town and its poor rabble needed a leader, a bright star in darkest night, to hold them from the very edge of terror and failure. This was his lot. He would not fail.
To the gleaming halls of The Libarry did he carry the great treasure. The townsfolk, in their simplicity, had overlooked it. They saw a burden and not a prize. Again, he would take up the mantle of sage and hero. Now, deep within the hidden rooms of the brobdingnagian archive he had built from stick and stone, he laid the Golden Apple. There it would rest until the town needed the puissance locked within.
Despite the pride he felt as he bore the great bounty homeward, the quondam said scourge coursed through him. Still it ate away and faster yet. Once his habiutés were safely home and their future safely secreted in the hollows of his beloved lyceum, he fell. Away from the eyes of the people, in the dark of his own donjon, he slept a disquited torpor as the swevens came.
The eyes of a thousand foes were upon him as he lay dormant. They called to him, voices grating, carolling doom and fortune. A lead voice broke forth, a pure tenor among the caddish chorus.
Awaken, my child,
O Prized and Grand.
Arise,
Phoenix of the Burning Land.
Arise,
Living among the Dead and D**ned.
Sell not thy soul for false and fallen.
Pyrite thy hast,
But now take Gilt.
Betimes the bilbo doth approach
Be thy at its point or hilt?
Take thy future proudly, bravely.
Stand thee tall
Whilst others wilt.
The leid, fading slowly, stayed with him as he startled to consciousness. Every corner of his fortress explored, the once unwavering half ogre knew fear for the first time. And fight though he did, still sleep overtook him. Laying his head next to the great egg he had carried from the far mountains, the singers greeted his oblivion.